Suburban witchcraft

Mischievous streak

Well-worn with

Longer than average

Locks.  Wardrobe

Slightly more black

Than is fashionable

But not out of place

For the morning commute

Small signs, nothing overt

Letting slip some things

Behind closed doors

To trusted friends

Over drinks

Nothing serious

A harmless habit

Sewing circles, book clubs,

Keeping a solitary cat

Growing the odd pot of herbs

Reading, cooking, stitching wishes

All perfectly normal pastimes

For a middle-aged mum

Refusing to pay too much

Attention to the pruning

Hedges running amuck

Except that one bush in the

Shape of a five-pointed

Blobby something

That could be a star

If you squint properly

Or perhaps a large flower

Who can say?

Getting into the spirit

Of the seasons

Treating Hallow’een as

Others might Christmas

A night in with family

Alive and not-so-much

Candles, cake, roast veg

Nuts and berries

Communing after dark

Orange face grin-split

To show off the light within

A toast to the wheel

That keeps turning

Year round

Springing from

Youthful dawn

To beldam and bonfire

Quiet and crafty

Safe as houses

Keeping things tidy

Communing with

One’s own nature

In the pleasant anonymity

Of the leafy suburbs

The land of green ginger

Magic was once my favourite word
That long ago time, when dreams flew about.
I loved every tune my ear ever heard
And voices sang all around, inside and out.

With only a breath of a wish I could climb
To peak on each mountain and slide down the frost
I needed no answers, no reason to rhyme
But I’m starting to fear that this time I have lost.

The lonely existence I now seek to fill
With fragments of stories, my paperback friends,
Seems further away from what little I still
Remember from those tangled, twisted loose ends.

I wonder and wander around and about
And puzzle at what things have stolen away
The dreams and ideas that did glitter and shout
Throughout every night and during every day.

Dancing around the bedroom in my pyjamas

Dancing around the bedroom in my pyjamas I pause to pirouette, feeling the scrape of the carpet, crumb-covered, beneath the ball of my blister-blighted foot, and I am beautiful. Without makeup, without mirrors, with no one to look at me or to stroke my ever-hungry ego, I breathe in the stale, book-dusty air, hear the tinny music of the radio, spy your socks on the floor, and, tutting to myself, march proudly onward to face the morning.